


Bruises

by PericulaLudus



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [19]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis | René d'Herblay Is Not Okay, Gen, Hurt Porthos, Medic Aramis, POV Porthos, Protective Porthos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27165097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: He wanted to lie down and not move a muscle for the next few days. Hide and rest until the wounds had scabbed over and the bruises were starting to fade.One look at Aramis told him that wasn’t an option.Aramis wanted to take care of him. Of course. He had good salves for wounds and bruises. They’d help. But Porthos would have to suffer through their application.And there was more.Aramis hadn’t been himself since Porthos had come to in the forest.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay/Porthos du Vallon
Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1078923
Comments: 5
Kudos: 44





	Bruises

**Bruises**

Keep smiling. Keep smiling. God damn it, keep smiling.

The captain was there and half the regiment had nothing better to do than to watch him walk across the yard. Porthos wished he could walk faster, but his legs were definitely not up for that. He tried to shift his weight to his left leg, but that nearly made his knee buckle. His right was no better. His buttock was hurting on that side. His buttock. Of all the body parts that could get hurt... He’d rather let Aramis be the only pain in the arse he suffered.

He walked like a new-born foal. So embarrassing.

Had Aramis’ room always been that far from the gate?

At least it wasn’t up the stairs.

His shoulder throbbed. What did his shoulder have to complain about? Athos had put it back in very nicely and as far as Porthos was concerned that should have been the end of it. Instead the stupid thing still hurt.

At least carrying his arm in a sling gave him the perfect excuse for holding on to his ribs. Because those hurt as well. Nothing broken, Aramis had said. But unbroken ribs could still hurt. As could all sorts of other unbroken body parts.

He’d had some time on the drive back to Paris to examine his legs. He wasn’t looking forward to freeing them from the sorry remains of his trousers. Wasn’t much left. Of his trousers, that was. His legs were still there and showed him that by being extremely painful. They looked like a very inexperienced butcher’s apprentice had tried to skin them with a very dull knife.

He still had half of that dirt road stuck in the wounds and knew that Aramis would insist on washing them.

Glorious. Something to look forward to. His favourite way to spend an evening.

He wanted to lie down and not move a muscle for the next few days. Hide and rest until the wounds had scabbed over and the bruises were starting to fade.

One look at Aramis told him that wasn’t an option.

Aramis wanted to take care of him. Of course. He had good salves for wounds and bruises. They’d help. But Porthos would have to suffer through their application.

And there was more.

Aramis hadn’t been himself since Porthos had come to in the forest.

He’d lost consciousness almost immediately when he’d been chucked out of the carriage. Judging by the impressive goose egg on the back of his skull, he’d hit a conveniently placed rock which saved him from having to witness the whole wild ride.

He could imagine, though.

So could Aramis, judging by the haunted look in his eyes.

He imagined way too much.

Porthos knew there was no way he’d be able to simply sleep this off. He had to take care of Aramis’ soul as much as Aramis had to take care of his abused body. They worked like that. Two souls, two bodies, but woven together so tightly that one could never be happy and whole if the other one wasn’t.

“Careful,” Aramis said when he stumbled over the threshold. His voice was as tightly controlled. About as tightly as Porthos was controlling his own mouth so he wouldn’t curse or groan.

One more step. Two. The door closed behind them.

Porthos groaned.

Aramis grabbed his hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Porthos said. “I scared you.”

“I should have…” Aramis shook his head.

Should have prevented this from happening? How? Should have not been scared? Hardly.

“It’s alright.” Porthos brought his hand up to brush Aramis’ cheek. “We’re home now. We’re alright.”

“Yes.” Aramis breathed the word like a sigh. Like he didn’t believe it. Couldn’t.

How bad was it? There was no point in asking now. Aramis would have to do his thing. He’d have to undress Porthos and tend to each wound, slather salve on each bruise. He’d have to feel all of his bones again and look at his eyes and ask him if he was dizzy or nauseous. And Porthos would let him. Because this was taking care of Aramis as much as it was taking care of him. Aramis needed the reassurance.

Sometimes words were not enough. This felt like one of those times.

Aramis had been crying. The first thing Porthos noticed when he woke up were the tears dripping onto his face. After that, he noticed the pain. The tears were more important.

Aramis’ tears.

He cried so rarely and so quietly, that hardly anybody ever noticed it. Rumour had it, he’d never cried in his life. Rubbish rumour. Of course he cried. But still. It wasn’t often and it always held meaning. It always made Porthos afraid. He remembered those early days of Aramis crying. The times when he got lost in the tears, caught in unspeakable terror.

“Can you stand a little longer?” Aramis pulled himself up straight, determined to carry on with his self-appointed duties.

“Sure,” Porthos said. Standing actually wasn’t too bad. Walking had been much worse. As long as he didn’t move… not horrible. Lying down probably wouldn’t be any better. How was that even supposed to work, being bruised all over? Front or back, he felt like there wouldn’t be a single comfortable position for him.

Aramis took off all of Porthos’ belts and weapons. Porthos craned his neck. He’d probably dented his pistols and bent his blade all out of shape. Not really made for being bashed into rocks. Hopefully, those things would be easily fixed. He didn’t have money for the smith. Heaven forbid if he’d actually broken his blade. Those things cost a fortune. At least if you wanted something nice. There were always the basic ones in the armoury. He grimaced.

“Am I hurting you?” Aramis froze.

“Nah,” Porthos said. “Just wondering if my sword survived.”

Aramis pulled it out of its scabbard. In one piece.

Porthos breathed a sigh of relief as they both looked at the curved blade.

“Bent, but not broken,” he said. “Much like me then.”

It took much longer to make sure he really wasn’t broken. Slow, painstaking work as Aramis once again felt each bone, each muscle. Removing his doublet alone seemed to take an eternity. Porthos moved his fingers, wrists, and elbows, his toes, feet, and knees at Aramis’ gentle command. Everything still attached, everything moving as it should. All good.

At the same time, he tried to check Aramis. He was hurting, that much was clear, but Porthos wasn’t sure what was causing him pain.

“See,” he said when Aramis had once again prodded his injured shoulder. “It’s really not that bad.”

Aramis bit his lip and didn’t look at him.

“I’ll remove the larger parts now before I clean it properly.” Aramis squatted in front of Porthos to tackle the matter of his trousers or rather their tattered remains.

“Come on.” Porthos put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got to admit I’m not badly hurt.”

Aramis’ eyes flickered up to him for only a heartbeat. “You’re not.”

He wasn’t up for conversation and that alone… that was always a warning sign. Aramis loved to chat at all times, suitable and particularly unsuitable times. He always chatted when he took care of wounds. Kept his patients conscious and distracted that way.

Porthos could have done with some distraction. Peeling bits of trousers from his shredded legs, even when done very gently, stung. He tried a few more times, but Aramis wouldn’t give him more than yes or no answers, if that. Wrong. All of this was completely wrong. He put his good hand on Aramis’ shoulder to keep his balance. Maybe the touch would help balance Aramis as well.

Porthos hissed breaths in and out between his teeth as Aramis separated cloth from flesh. He was glad to have Aramis’ confirmation that he really wasn’t badly hurt. The pain could have fooled him.

He looked down at his legs. The wounds had started to bleed again. No surprise there. He cursed when Aramis’ nail got caught in a deep scratch. By god and the cardinal’s gnarled yellow toenails, that hurt.

Aramis flinched and when Porthos looked at him, he saw him clutch his wrist, trying to steady it. His hands were shaking. That hadn’t happened for years. Not since d’Artagnan had joined them and even before… not once during the war. But really, was he surprised? All the signs were there.

Aramis glanced up and quickly dropped his hands.

“On the bed,” he said. “It’ll be more comfortable that way.”

Which, even by Aramis’ standards, was a massive exaggeration. Having gravel dug out of his skin was about as far from comfortable as Porthos Paris was from the fur traders of Acadia. He tried to bite his tongue but couldn’t stop the groans and growls escaping him. There was no hope of getting out of this quickly. Aramis was nothing if not thorough. He washed those wounds as if they had personally offended him, then slathered them in some cream that smelled of hay and dried flowers.

He never looked up and after a little while, Porthos stared straight up at the ceiling, letting the tears run down his cheeks and wishing himself far away from this procedure. It wasn’t the deep, stabbing pain of having a musket ball removed, but it wasn’t as focussed either. This felt like his legs were on fire.

Everything else was throbbing. From his head to his buttocks, all those bruises did their level best to torment him. Funny how being fine could hurt so much. He’d suffered less painful torture.

He kept groaning and growling and feeling sorry for himself until eventually, Aramis was done. Porthos heard him wash his hands and sighed. That was better. The fire in his legs turned to smouldering embers that settled in nicely with the rest of the aches and pains.

Aramis knelt down next to the bed and soon Porthos heard whispered snatches of Latin. Prayers. That would be good. He looked at Aramis’ bowed head and smiled. Hopefully that would calm him down. He slung the warm familiarity of prayer around him like a blanket in times of need.

It calmed Porthos as well. It didn’t calm the throbbing, but it made him lie back and relax. He could do that. Lie there on that bed that smelled of Aramis and listen to him pray until the pain let up.

The Latin stopped.

A quick glance revealed that Aramis had bent forward, eyes squeezed tightly shut and lips forming unheard prayers. Probably personal prayers. He rarely said those out loud.

Porthos wanted to reach out to touch Aramis’ hair, to rub his back or offer comfort in some other way, but the arm closest to the edge of the bed was his bad one and he didn’t feel able to turn. He watched Aramis instead, hoping that maybe the air would carry some of his tenderness.

At first, he thought he had blinked or that the light had tricked him, but then it happened again and again. Aramis’ shoulders were twitching. Porthos held his breath. And yes, there, barely audible under the usual din of voices and swords and hooves in the courtyard, were little hitched noises.

Aramis...

He was crying. Or rather, sobbing his eyes out by the looks of it. Always so quiet. Nothing else about him was, but this… always. As if crying was too much. As if everything else he did so boldly, so confidently, was fine, but not this show of emotion.

“Aramis.” Aramis’ head shot up no matter how softly Porthos tried to speak. “Come here.”

Aramis’ red eyes were wide and questioning, his face streaked with tears.

“Come here,” Porthos repeated and patted the bed. “Let me hold you.”

He didn’t really hold him in the end. Aramis slid up between him and the wall and draped himself along Porthos’ side, pasting his body to any uninjured parts he could find.

Oh Aramis…

Tears soaked Porthos’ shirt and the trembling at his side wouldn’t stop for the longest time. He didn’t speak, didn’t rush him. No need to make Aramis hide his tears even more. He could cry all he wanted, all he needed.

Why though? The injuries... It must have given him a fright seeing Porthos dragged like that. Maybe the tears from the forest were welling up again. Sometimes these things took a while. 

Porthos rubbed his back, his poor shaking shoulders that sometimes seemed to carry the weight of the world. Shaking hands were fisting into his shirt, the whole man trembling from head to toe.

“All good now.” Porthos made his voice a low rumble, barely even a sound. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Slowly, slowly, Aramis calmed a little. He took deep, shuddering breaths and sniffled to clear his nose. Porthos tried to shift so he could kiss him, but at least a dozen bruises protested that movement so he stopped. Aramis could tell when he was in pain and that wouldn’t help at all. He settled for playing with Aramis’ hair instead.

“You warned me,” he said, making his voice light and teasing. "That very first day when you taught me to ride, you told me not to hold on too tight so I wouldn't get dragged behind.”

"Don't," Aramis replied, voice choked. "Don't you ever do that again.”

Porthos chuckled. "Nah, you taught me well.”

Aramis whined softly until Porthos shushed him with whispered promises. He wouldn’t do that again. Not that he’d had any power over it that day. But he’d promise it now. Never again. Aramis would not have to see this again. Never. Not even a little moment of fear. It was fine.

“You were a good teacher,” he said, trying to conjure up happier memories. “Taught me so much. Gave me Joseph as well. Taught me how to take care of him and how he’d take care of me.”

He wanted Aramis’ face to soften with a smile, for his body to relax. Horse talk usually did it. Instead, Aramis nestled tighter against him, seeking touch so desperately he nearly crawled onto Porthos’ chest.

"I was so scared of losing you back then.”

Porthos stopped and blinked his eyes. That wasn’t right.

“Nah.” He laughed and poked Aramis’ side. “You’d moved into your own room. You told me to leave you alone.”

"Yes." Aramis’ voice hitched on the word.

Porthos stopped laughing. Something wasn’t right at all.

“Aramis?” He dragged Aramis’ face out of his shoulder.

Aramis looked away from him. “Nothing.”

“It’s got to be something.”

He could feel Aramis shake his head against his chest. He tried to think back to that time. How much it had hurt when Aramis had told him he wanted to move out of their shared room… rejection after all they had been through together, losing the man he thought was his one real friend. _I can't get better with you always by my side as my nursemaid._ That still stung after all those years. _I thought you’d be happy, happy to be free of me._

Oh Aramis…

“You sent me away so…” Porthos wasn’t sure he had the words for the thought that was starting to form in his mind.

“… so you couldn’t leave me first,” Aramis finished the sentence for him, confirming his fear.

“Never.”

Aramis’ laugh sounded more like a sob. "I was so... useless... of course you were going to leave."

What? How? How did he even…

“Never, Aramis. Never.” Now Porthos was tearing up as well. How could Aramis think that? “You were never useless.”

“I was.”

“What do you think you need to do, you silly man? You don’t need to prove anything. I wouldn’t have left you.” Porthos buried his fingers in Aramis’ hair and rubbed small circles on his scalp. “And I’m never going to leave you,” he added. Just in case that was… yes, judging by the renewed shaking, he’d hit the nail on the head there. That was a worry for Aramis.

“Never,” Porthos said. “No matter what. You don’t need to be useful or anything. You are, but you don’t have to be. Doesn’t matter.”

“What if—” Aramis’ voice broke. Porthos felt him gulp and tried to somehow calm him with his own steady breathing, his touch. “What if I go back to… to how I was?”

“Then you’re still stuck with me.” That much was certain. But what had prompted this? “You won’t though,” he added, trying to reassure him.

Aramis whined like a hurt animal. “Don’t,” he gasped. “Don’t say… I… I…”

“You’re doing so well,” Porthos said. “You’ve been doing well for years.”

“But now—”

“Shhh… You’re just shaken. That wasn’t a pretty sight today. But you did it. You took care of me. It’s all good.”

“But I…” Aramis lifted his head from Porthos’ chest and peered at him with wide eyes. “I’m so scared and I… I shouldn’t be… I wasn’t. Not when… all the other times. You’ve been injured and Athos and… the war and all these times… I never… not like this.”

Porthos kissed him softly on the forehead. “So many times you’ve handled things so well. Much, much worse things. See, you don’t break. You’re wonderful.”

Aramis sniffed. “Then why now?” he asked very quietly. “It jumps at me out of nowhere. To remind me it’s still there. That it’ll never let me go.”

“Neither will I.”

“You can’t say that.”

“Unless you send me away, I’ll always be there. And even if… you’ve got to really mean it.”

“What if I do?”

Porthos couldn’t repress a shudder at that. What if he did? The thought of Aramis leaving, leaving him… Death was one thing, one big, horrible thing, but leaving voluntarily, sending him away…

“You don’t get to try and make that decision for me,” Porthos said. “Because I’m never going to leave you.”

“Maybe you should.”

Porthos sighed. “Again, Aramis, you don’t need to do anything or be anything in particular. I’ll stay for you. Just you. Because I love you and care for you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t. What if… if it gets worse…” Aramis’ fingers tightened in Porthos’ shirt, twisting the fabric. “What if… if… Tréville couldn’t keep me, not if I… like I was… He wouldn’t want to but he doesn’t have a choice in the end…”

Porthos cradled Aramis’ face in his hand and turned it so they were looking at each other. “You been thinking about that?” he asked. “Been seeing him kick you out in your mind?”

Aramis nodded.

“I’ll stick by you,” Porthos said. “Plenty of musketeers have mistresses or children, see. It’s possible to support loved ones outside the garrison. They make it work. We would, too.”

“You would…?”

“Yes.”

“But what if—”

“Anything, love. I’ve got you.”

“But you can’t… You want to. I know. But we can’t live without money.”

Porthos chuckled softly. “Not likely that Athos will take a mistress. He’d look out for us instead.”

“But—”

“A nice little house somewhere. He’d come and visit as long as we kept the cellar stocked.”

Aramis made a little hiccupping sound that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“You know he would,” Porthos said. “And you know he could, as well.”

Aramis nuzzled into his hand like a cat. He was crying again and Porthos wiped away the tears with his thumb. Anything, from Athos and him both.

A knock on the door. Before Porthos could shout for whoever it was to hold on, the door opened. Aramis’ tear-streaked face disappeared into Porthos’ shirt and Porthos drew his arm tighter around him.

D’Artagnan popped his head in, grinning from ear to ear, then quickly slipped in and closed the door. Couldn’t count on him to wait for even one moment before barging in, but he wasn’t entirely stupid.

“Letters delivered back to their rightful owner and coach and horses as well,” he said. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

His eyes flickered over the two of them and to his credit didn’t linger on their firm embrace. He stepped closer to take a good look at Porthos’ legs and winced.

“Oof, that’s gotta hurt.”

Porthos grimaced and cleared his throat, not quite trusting his voice yet. Now that d’Artagnan had mentioned it, the pain returned. Quite right, that did hurt. He glanced down at his bare legs and had to agree. They looked the part, scrubbed to a shiny red with some trickles of blood slowly drying between left-over smears of salve.

“Can I get you anything?” d’Artagnan asked. “Food, bandages, some wine to take the edge off?”

He was looking intently at Porthos as he spoke and mouthed a silent _”Is he alright?”_ at the end of his questions. The grin had disappeared. Even though his tone was still light, he was frowning.

Porthos held on to Aramis’ head and felt him snuffle against his chest. He blinked his eyes. Yes. He would be. They both would. Bruises healed. Outside and in.

“I’ll take this out.” D’Artagnan pointed at the dirty water and the bloody rags. 

“Thanks.” That’d be good. Couldn’t be helping Aramis, having to look at all that.

D’Artagnan seemed to follow his trail of thoughts.

“Maybe bandages.” He looked pointedly at Porthos’ legs.

“Sure,” Porthos said. Maybe. Maybe Aramis would want to let the wounds breathe, but maybe it would be best to hide them. Who knew…? For years, he would have known. Now they were back… not back to where they started, but back to the insecurity. He smiled. They’d do it all again if they had to.

“Maybe some food,” he said. “I’m hungry.”

That made d’Artagnan smile. “I’ll see what Serge’s got cooking. Tell him he needs to feed you up again. That’ll frighten him.”

He leaned over the bed to clasp Porthos’ hand for a moment. His face was soft and full of fondness. He gave Aramis’ shoulder a little squeeze and left the room.

Aramis’ whole body tightened and went so rigid that it hurt Porthos’ bruises.

“Shhh, all good…”

“He pitied me.” Aramis’ voice was spiky and hard like his body.

Porthos hummed and thought. “No,” he concluded. “He likes you and he’s checking in with you, that’s all.”

“Shouldn’t have to.”

“And you shouldn’t have to clean me up.”

Aramis rolled to his side, looking indignant. “That’s different. You’re hurt.”

“So are you.”

Aramis made a face like he’d suggested they eat horse dung for dinner. “I’m not.”

Porthos lifted his shirt until his chest was mostly bare. His ribcage was covered in dark red patches that would be black and blue come morning. He pressed firmly down on one of the largest spots. Pain radiated up and down his body and black spots clouded his vision.

“Don’t do that!” Aramis sounded scandalised. “Breathe. Slowly. It’ll let up in a moment.”

He lifted up on his elbow and patted Porthos’ hand.

Porthos smiled even as tears stung his eyes. Worth it. “Hurts pretty bad,” he said.

“Then why do you go pressing on your bruises?”

“Sometimes you can’t help it. But it’s nothing serious.”

“Of course it’s not, but that still doesn’t mean…” Aramis shook his head. “That was needless.”

“But see,” Porthos said. “Some injuries hurt pretty bad even though they are not serious.”

“Ah…” Aramis lowered his head. “You think this is nothing?”

“I don’t know,” Porthos said. “But it’s no good assuming the worst. I didn’t break any bones and I don’t think you cracked either. Although maybe it doesn’t feel like it now.”

“Doesn’t feel like it for you or for me?” Aramis asked, resting his hand lightly on Porthos’ ribs.

“Both of us.” Porthos put his hand over Aramis’, covering it completely. He nodded at his chest, his shoulder. “Just cause it doesn’t look like much outside, doesn’t mean it can’t hurt underneath.”

Aramis sighed so long and hard it was a miracle he’d ever had that much air to begin with. “Thank you,” he finally said. “You always reach me, no matter how far gone I am.”

“Of course.” Porthos smiled. “But if you want me to heal properly you better don’t go running off any time soon. Cause I will come for you, bruises be damned.”

Aramis gave him a timid little smile. “You always do.”

“Always.”

Aramis carefully rolled down Porthos’ shirt so it covered the worst of his bruises. He positioned his injured arm across his chest once more and then shuffled up so their faces were right next to each other. His fingertips ghosted over the swelling at the back of Porthos’ skull, then gently brushed over his hair.

He leaned forward and smiled, face so close that Porthos could feel the warm huff of his breath on his cheek.

“You silly man.”

He closed the gap between them, lips pressing together.

A chaste kiss. Soft, slow, lingering.

“I love you.”


End file.
